Disclaimers in part 1 Treasure Island took the uncontrollable liberality of its slot machines at least as seriously as they would have taken a bomb threat, in Joe's opinion. The resort went into full lockdown, evacuated all staff and guests, secured all cash and chips in a vault, and posted guards. Joe didn't know what steps were taken to deal with the blazing ship outside, nor did he know whether or not the police had been called, for he had used his intricate knowledge of the back accessways of Treasure Island to guide him into the warren of grey service corridors winding under the resort. Prosthetic legs or no, Joe reflected, there were reasons why Mrs. Dawson's boy Joe was one of the best field agents in the Watchers. He found them in a wide corridor, between a cart full of dirty dishes in dishpans and an opening in the wall marked "Danger! Incinerator" and covered with a swiveling steel plate. Methos, his hair still wet from the dive he had taken off the back of the ship to escape official notice, was now wearing a security guard uniform. In his hands he held a gym bag and a standard immortal-issue trenchcoat. Joe hoped Methos had one hand on a gun, if not on a sword, because, before him, stood Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, his beautiful and famous katana in hand, looking mighty pissed. Neither immortal so much as glanced Joe's way as he came through the swinging double doors. He supposed his distinctive footsteps in the empty corridor must have given him away. "So, you're Methos," Connor observed, in a tight, angry tone. "He told me you'd vanished from Paris." Connor was balanced on the balls of his grey tennis shoes, the katana ready in his right hand, his own trenchcoat open, hanging to his denim-clad calves. Methos, for his part, looked incongrous in the uniform, for, rather than exuding confidence and machismo, the attitude Joe associated with rent-a-cops, Methos had turned on "innocuous and non-threatening", making the uniform look like an ill-fitting costume. Still, as Joe looked, another incongruity stuck him. Something about Methos was not mild. Something whispered of power, of triumph. Beneath the innocuous body language, the wide, frightened-looking eyes, beneath the nervous glances around the corridor, beneath it all, a coiled dragon roared with victory. It was the quality of the quarterback raised on his teammates shoulders, the glow of the gold medalist standing on the highest platform. "I won, I won," seemed to thrum through the air. Methos reeked of power; he could no more shed it than he could shed his skin. Joe had seen it on Duncan many times, but he'd thought it a natural manifestation of the Highlander's physical charisma. Whatever it was, Connor approached it with considerable caution. "I'm not hunting Duncan," said Methos. He shifted the gym bag so the coat covered his hands. "I figured that out," Connor replied. He stepped to the side, katana keeping the distance between them. "Could we discuss this with your sword sheathed?" Methos sounded nervous. He glanced at the double doors behind him, twins to the ones Joe had come through. They could be escape; Methos wasn't cornered. "I think we should discuss it with yours drawn." Connor ceased his circling, and settled ever so slightly into a ready posture. He raised the katana. Joe felt in his pocket for the new .45 he'd bought to replace the one Connor had taken from his office. He thumbed off the safety. "I'm not fighting you," Methos stated. He bent his knees slowly, watching Connor, and set his coat and gym bag on the linoleum between them. Connor took another step to the side, clear of the stuff on the floor. "You're not a coward." Connor's tone was thoughtful, a man considering his options. "You fought Kirin fair. Why kill Kirin?" "To protect Duncan. Kirin was trying to lure him out." Connor shook his head and stepped closer to the other immortal. "Duncan fights his own fights. What do you know?" Joe gripped his gun. Methos shrugged, never taking his gaze off of Connor. "Then, I did it because it's the Game." Connor was out of patience. "So is this. Draw your sword." "I'm unarmed." Methos stepped back from his coat. Connor moved forward with him, maintaining a fighting distance, beginning the dance. Joe's heart pounded. "Then you're giving me your head." Connor darted in, intercepting Methos's attempt to move sideways, and placed the tip of the legendary katana against the other man's chest. Methos stood very still, but for one quick glance down at the sword. "I'm Duncan's friend; I don't kill his kin," he stated. Connor never turned his back to Joe, but his attention was clearly focused elsewhere. Joe steeled himself for a shot. If Connor skewered Methos, Joe hoped he could shoot him before he went for the head. But surely the most cautious of immortals had a weapon in that security guard uniform, somewhere! "What do you know?" Connor shouted. "Where. Is. Duncan!" He raised the handle of the katana, pressing. Methos winced. "I don't know." Methos held the Highlander's gaze. "I don't want to know. You should stay away from him, too. You might do more harm than good." Connor shifted his weight and adjusted his two handed grip on the dragon hilt of his sword. "Why?" he demanded. "How? Don't give me hints. Tell me!" "I've told you what I can," Methos said, softly. The two immortals were statues. Methos was one sudden stab and slice with that almost magically-sharp katana away from death. Yet power still rolled off of him. Joe suddenly remembered Watcher speculation that quickenings were addictive, or alluring to immortals. Would Connor kill him, unarmed? "What kind of friend are you?" Connor's tone held anger and contempt. He pulled his katana away and back into hiding with sleight-of-hand swiftness, and simultaneously punched Methos with a left jab. Methos staggered back. He crashed against the dishes cart, the clatter echoing in the corridor. But he kept his feet, and stood, warily. "The best kind I'm able to be." "That's not good enough!" Connor flew forward, yanking Methos to him by the coat of the uniform. "I think you posed as his friend and took his head," Connor hissed. He threw the unresisting Methos onto the coat and gym bag. "Take up your sword," he shouted. Methos did not move from the floor. "I couldn't do that," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. Connor's sword was in his hands again. "It's exactly the kind of thing he'd fall for." Methos quirked one side of his mouth. "Yes, it is. But he's too important to lose." At that, Connor froze, and now no one in the corridor was moving. Then, to Joe's surprise, Connor took two gliding steps backward, withdrawing his katana and frowning. "I know you were there when Sean Burns died," Connor stated. The two immortals regarded each other in silence. Joe held his breath, as something indefinable in the atmosphere shifted. "You helped Duncan," Connor continued. "You were his friend, so you can live. But you're no friend to him now." "Thanks," Methos said, standing. "I'm going to find him," Connor threatened. Methos nodded wearily and rubbed his jaw where Connor had punched him. "Could you take his head?" he inquired. "What kind of stupid question is that?" "He might ask you to. You should be ready for it. He asked me to." "And you let him go in that condition?!" Connor spat on the floor, and his katana vanished beneath his coat. "If I find he let someone take his head, I'm coming back for you." Without another word, or even a glance at Joe, Connor turned and strode past Joe and through the doors. Methos exhaled and cast a relieved expression at Joe. Joe didn't move. Some kind of shock had immobilized him. He could only watch as Methos, that intangible sense of power still clinging to him, picked up his gym bag, wrestled open the metal plate on the incinerator, and shoved the gym bag into the firey heart of Treasure Island. "I thought you might shoot him," Joe managed, though the sense of unreality had not lifted. "With what?" Methos brushed his hands together and straightened his uniform. "I figured *you* had *your* gun." Joe found he was still gripping his .45 inside his pocket and he released it. "My God, you mean you really were unarmed?" Now a different shock chased the other away. This was still "Adam", his poker partner of ten years. And for a second time in the same day, Joe had almost watched him die. "Between his commitment to honor and your commitment to your oath, I figured I was safe enough." Joe's commitment to his oath?! Oh, this was too much. "You think I would have shot him to protect your worthless neck?!" "I think you would have shot him in order to not lose what you think I know." Furious, Joe turned to leave. "Joe?" Methos called after him. Joe seriously considered shooting the immortal out of pure spite, but there were too many good reasons not to. "Don't you even speak to me," he bit out. It was the last thing he said to his old poker buddy for a very long time.